The Probability Shift

Blake is Blake

The Blake mansion stood as a monument to wealth and power, its sprawling grounds meticulously maintained, and its opulent interiors filled with art and artifacts from around the world, some of them acquirred in back alleys and black markets.

Eugene Blake, a figure whose presence commanded both respect and fear, sat in his private study. The room was dimly lit, the only source of illumination coming from a crackling fireplace. The flames cast flickering shadows on the dark wood paneling and leather-bound books lining the shelves. Blake's wheelchair occupied the center of the room, looking like a throne from which he ruled his empire.

He stared intently at a large monitor displaying real-time financial data and geopolitical updates. His fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of his wheelchair. He had anticipated today's coup would proceed smoothly, putting one of his pawns in power in a volatile region—an outcome that would further solidify his grip on regional resources and thus global markets. But he could not see the intended results for now.

The door to his study opened silently, and one of his most trusted lieutenants entered with measured steps. A tall, thin, totally bold Hispanic man floating in a gray suit too large for him. The man carried an air of urgency, evident in the tightness around his eyes and the way he held a tablet close to his chest.

"Sir," he began without preamble, "we've received some troubling news."

Blake's gaze snapped to him, his eyes narrowing. "What is it?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a double-edge sword.

"The coup in the Middle East," the lieutenant hesitated for just a fraction of a second before continuing. "It's been thwarted."

Blake's fingers stopped drumming. "Thwarted?" The word seemed to hang in the air like an accusation. "How?"

The lieutenant approached cautiously, handing over the tablet. On its screen were reports from various intelligence sources. Blake scanned them quickly, his expression darkening with each passing second.

"It appears," the lieutenant explained, "that UN peacekeepers arrested our men right before the missiles launch."

Blake's jaw clenched. The UN had never acted with such precision before. Their operations were usually bogged down by bureaucracy and inefficiency. This was different—almost as if they had known exactly what would happen before it did.

"How could they have known?" Blake demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "We devised this operation with minimum outside interaction, and it was prepared too fast for the usual intelligence services to pick up on us."

The lieutenant shook his head slightly. "We're still investigating, but initial reports suggest they were using some advanced probabilistic model—a predictive system of some kind they tested on the field today."

Blake leaned back in his wheelchair, his dark eyes narrowing further as he processed this information. A predictive system that could foresee events with such accuracy was not just an inconvenience—it was a potential threat to everything he had built for so many years, loading dices and tricking card decks from the shadows to shuffle markets and politics in his favor.

"I want to know everything about that UN project!"